


Bailing Boats

by masterwords



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Brothers, First Aid, Going Home, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, soft whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterwords/pseuds/masterwords
Summary: He turned into the long driveway, slowing his wheels so he didn't kick up so much dirt, she hadn’t had it oiled in years.  The old white farmhouse with its dilapidated wrap around porch come into focus as he crested the hill, looming ominously at him.  He paused at the top, staring down at his childhood home, the yard mowed and wide open bordering the farmland of their neighbors, the huge oak in the back with the crumbling tree house.  His father’s shed, leaning ever so slightly to the side, the roof covered in moss and leaves stood just beyond the house.  Slowly, he pressed the gas and the car lurched forward down the hill and up to the house, coming to park beside a little black motorcycle and his eyes trailed up to its owner, leaning coolly against a weather worn porch column, smoking a cigarette.  He had all of the cool, calm demeanor of James Dean.  The man's long blonde hair hung limp and unwashed in his eyes, he wore a white t-shirt and black track pants, the uniform of coming home and sleeping in your teenage bedroom Aaron supposed.   He took a deep breath and slid out of the car, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat before shutting the door.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Bailing Boats

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just can’t get the idea of Hotch and Sean out of my mind. So in this instance, it’s SUPER not canon and I know that. I invented my own timeline, essentially, just to play around with their weird brotherly relationship a bit. (In my mind, this is sometime very shortly after the divorce papers were signed Season 3, if you want a rough estimate of where my head put it as I wrote.)

A week of vacation, to most people, would mean pleasure – beaches and drinks, sight seeing maybe, or even just comfortable clothes and books, but Aaron was starting his by driving up a winding back road in rural Virginia as the sun rose behind him. Surrounded by grassy fields dotted with red maples and scarlet oaks, golden pools of new light had just begun to spill over the countryside. The scent of autumn hung crisp in the air as he drove his rental car down the dusty old road. He could have driven it with his eyes closed, he had in fact as a reckless teenager more than once with a beer in his hand and a car full of fearless passengers. His mother's house was the only home down this far, no one ever drove out here, it should have been an oasis but he just felt dread as he approached. He turned into the long driveway, slowing his wheels so he didn't kick up so much dirt, she hadn’t had it oiled in years. The old white farmhouse with its dilapidated wrap around porch come into focus as he crested the hill, looming ominously at him. He paused at the top, staring down at his childhood home, the yard mowed and wide open bordering the farmland of their neighbors, the huge oak in the back with the crumbling tree house. His father’s shed, leaning ever so slightly to the side, the roof covered in moss and leaves stood just beyond the house. Slowly, he pressed the gas and the car lurched forward down the hill and up to the house, coming to park beside a little black motorcycle and his eyes trailed up to its owner, leaning coolly against a weather worn porch column, smoking a cigarette. He had all of the cool, calm demeanor of James Dean. The man's long blonde hair hung limp and unwashed in his eyes, he wore a white t-shirt and black track pants, the uniform of coming home and sleeping in your teenage bedroom Aaron supposed. He took a deep breath and slid out of the car, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat before shutting the door. 

“Aaron!” Sean called, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of his slipper before approaching his brother and wrapping him in a hug. Sean always greeted boldly, even if they hadn't spoken in years, even if Aaron didn't want anything to do with him and he knew it. He'd hug, and then he'd say something snarky or rude, but he'd always hug first, it was customary, like it absolved him of the crime he was about to commit. He was so like their mother. “You look like shit.” There it was, Aaron thought. He furrowed his brow, scowling at his younger brother.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He'd decided against a pithy comeback, there would be plenty of time for that but he wasn't eager to be yelled at by his mother first thing in the morning, and if he took Sean's bait, it wouldn't be long. “Mom inside?”

“Making breakfast,” Sean replied, hopping up the steps two at a time while Aaron followed. He let the screen door slam in Aaron's face, squealing on its rusty hinges. The house smelled like sausage and eggs and he let his nose lead him directly to the kitchen, setting his bag on the floor just inside the door. He looked around, everything looked the same – deep, mahogany cabinets, worn and faded from years of use, a messy counter top filled with all of the fixings for a big country breakfast, and his mother swishing around from stove to sink and back in her apron, her hair and makeup already done even if it was only 7am. 

“Hi Mom,” Aaron said, standing awkwardly in the doorway, as if this hadn't been the home he'd spent his entire young life in, save for a few years at boarding school. He knew every inch, every ding, dent, every hiding spot and every creaking board, and yet he felt wrong. So wrong. It belonged here, he did not. His mother turned around and smiled so bright it seemed to light up the room, rushing over to him and wrapping him in a huge, tight hug. She clung tight to him, like she'd been saving this hug up for years, and he hugged her back but with less desperation. When she released him, her hands flew up to his face, cupping his jaw, and she frowned. She never looked him in the eye, but she searched his face. 

“You don't look well. Are you eating? Sleeping? It's that job of yours, isn't it? I always told you it was too hard, too much. You should have stayed in law.” There it was, that's where Sean got it. It was genetic.

“I'm okay, mom,” he replied, and she just clicked her tongue and shook her head. He turned his head, peered into the mirror that hung on the wall behind him, wondering what it was that they were so put off by. His hair was neatly cut and mostly staying in place, his shirt was clean, he even wore jeans to try and appear casual. Maybe his eyes looked tired but he'd been up since 4am getting ready and picking up his rental car to make a drive he didn't want to make to spend a week in a place he didn't want to spend even an hour. He wasn't sure he'd last a week if this kept up, anyway. He figured he looked okay, good in fact. 

“Sit, eat. Have you lost weight?”

“I'm training for a marathon,” Aaron replied in a low voice. He didn't think he'd lost any weight but he really didn't pay it much attention. He was running a lot more than usual, and his diet of coffee and muffins at work wasn't the healthiest but he wasn't sure it warranted concern. He pulled out a chair and sat in the same place, at the same table, as he'd sat for his whole life. She put a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice beside him, and he smiled, thanked her, but looked over at Sean mowing through his plate of greasy proteins and felt a little pang of jealousy. 

“Did you want some?” Sean asked, his mouth full of greasy meat. Aaron grimaced and shook his head. He'd never been one to eat heavy, greasy food for breakfast, it made him feel sick the rest of the day. Dinner, though, he could go for a full greasy breakfast plate at dinner time. He rarely allowed it though, but when he did, it was heavenly. 

“I'm fine,” he muttered, picking up his spoon and tasting his childhood. A dash of cinnamon, a hint of nutmeg, maple syrup drizzled over the top. Not too much, he'd never liked his oatmeal terribly sweet. She never forgot. If it was too sweet, the orange juice tasted funny, it all had to balance out. He had been a very particular child and hadn't outgrown it. 

“Aaron, your bag does not belong on the floor, please take it up to your room.” 

“After breakfast,” he said, picking up his spoon. She shook her head.

“No, before someone trips and breaks their neck,” she replied sternly, and he sighed, scooting his chair back and heading for his bag. Up the stairs at the end of the hall, creaking floor boards beneath his feet, he counted all ten steps up to the landing in his head and then the fifteen to the end of the hall, stopping at his closed bedroom door. A chill ran down his spine as he reached for the doorknob, feeling the familiar way it fit into his palm, and with a slight twitch of his wrist he pushed the door open. It creaked on its hinges that were twenty years overdue for some WD40, and he expected it to smell familiar – like Lysol and deodorant with an undercurrent of sweaty socks, mostly. Instead it smelled like dust and rot. His bed was made, corners tight, and his walls were bare. He'd never been one to hang photos. There were a few medals and trophies on the bookshelf from his years in track and field, mingled with dusty copies of old western novels and reference books. He figured he'd probably find a joint or two stuffed inside the cover of some of those books if he looked hard enough, but he'd let someone else come upon that treasure someday, or maybe Sean already had, he didn’t care much. A long mirror hung on his closet door, the corner shattered from knocking it with one of his shoes in a fit of anger once, and it had splintered the thing down the middle but he'd never bothered to ask for a new one. A photo of Haley in 11th grade was stuffed into the top corner, his eyes caught on it and lingered there for a moment and he thought about pulling it down but couldn't bring himself to. The Aaron Hotchner that this room belonged to still loved her, and he liked to think the Haley Brooks in that photo still loved him. He'd leave it for them. He was only a guest here, he didn't belong. Forever out of place, floating between places he belonged and people he wished loved him now but always they did in other times, other places. Love was always either a memory or a longing, he didn’t really understand it in the present tense. He dropped his bag on the floor beside his bed and his eyes fell on a small brown spot on the white molding. Crouching, he inspected it, noted more tiny brown specks all around it, on the wallpaper and on the floor. He scraped at a spot with his thumbnail and felt ice in his veins. Blood, his blood, he hadn't bothered to clean it. He didn't allow himself to think more about it, that belonged to the boy who haunted this room. It was his story. Slowly, he made his way back down to the kitchen and ate his oatmeal without another word, just trying to focus on the task at hand. The reason he was here, in this place that held no peace for him. 

“You never come home for Christmas,” his mother chimed, refilling his orange juice. Aaron sighed. 

“I know,” he muttered. “I'm not always around. Murderers still kill people at Christmas, mom. They don’t take holidays off.” 

“I'd like to see my grand baby, Aaron,” she said, her tone accusing now. He looked up at her, his eyes electric. She still didn’t meet his gaze, just looked around him, or through him, like usual. Like he was an apparition. 

“You and me both. I'm not home much.” He hadn't told them Haley divorced him. Didn't intend to, if he was being honest. His mother rolled her eyes and busied herself washing the dishes, Sean just sat in silence, his eyes accusing. 

“What's with you Aaron?” he asked, his voice hushed. “You're acting weird, even for you.” 

“Don't want to spend my vacation going through dad's stuff, that's all. I'd rather be anywhere else...I'd rather be at work.” 

“God, you’re an asshole.” Sean spat. “You mean at work with the people who don't even like you?”

“Sean, that's enough,” their mother said in a hushed tone, seeing clearly where this was headed. She scrubbed the counter harder with the rough side of her sponge though she’d already cleaned that spot three times. 

“No, mom, it's okay,” Aaron said softly, sipping his juice. “He's got something he's been wanting to throw in my face since I showed up, he was just waiting for an opportune time. He’s probably planned out the whole script. Go ahead, Sean.” 

As if on cue, Sean let loose. “Did you know they all had drinks last night? Derek and Emily and Jennifer and Penelope, even that weirdo kid showed up for a minute. Where were you? Derek invited me...did they invite you?”

Blindsided, but not surprised. They went out often without inviting him. It didn't mean they didn't like him, he wasn't a child, he understood the dynamics of the team and his role in leadership. He understood, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't sting a little that they invited Sean, even if he did know that Derek and Sean loved to get beers anytime Sean passed through. 

“No,” he replied, his voice low and sharp. He cleared his throat, changing the subject abruptly in order to spare their mother a fight she didn’t want to witness. “Where should I start sorting, mom? Dad's office or the shed?”

“The shed would be great, sweetheart,” she said without even looking in his direction, continuing her wiping down of the stove now. “Keep anything you'd like, throw out the rest. Thank you dear.” Aaron stood from the table and brought his dishes to the sink, washed them quickly and exited the kitchen without another word. The shed was a nice walk through the yard, past his favorite climbing tree, sitting in the shade of his tree-house. He peered up between the broken boards of the tree-house and smiled, feeling the morning sun on his face. This was the only place he felt joy on this entire property, this was his solace. Taking a deep breath, the scent of the magnolia tree nearby decaying, he smiled. If he hadn't had this place, he wasn't sure he would have made it through. Setting his resolve, he entered the shed, every tiny shred of joy ripped from him almost instantly. That a place of so much pain could be so near to a place of so much joy was almost beyond reason. The shed smelled rank, like dead things, rotten wood and old oil. His father spent much time out here, drinking in a chair in the corner after a hard day at work. This was his solace, and Aaron knew that sometimes he sat here watching the tree-house, watching Aaron cower up there afraid, and he felt that same joy because misery loved company. Aaron knew hard days at work, and he knew his father did too, it came with their chosen professions. They saw real evil, real despair, real terror. He could empathize with his father now, as an adult, the terrible things he saw, the awful deplorable people he had to defend knowing they were anything but innocent, the lives he ruined by simply being good at his job. Aaron knew now that his soul hurt, he felt empathy for his father, but it didn't absolve him. He took his anger, his rage, his profound sadness out on his wife and eldest son because they were there. That they loved him only made it easier because they would never go away, rarely fight back. He did it because he could. And then he'd sit out here, in this hell pit surrounded by tools and motor oil and projects he didn't want to do, and he'd drink until he could forget the awful things he'd done because it ripped him apart too. Every drop of Aaron's blood weighed on his soul. Every bruise. Every broken bone shattered him too, if he thought about it. Aaron knew all of that. He understood it, because he understood monsters and what made them tick. Most of them didn't start out as monsters. But he couldn't forgive it, because it wasn't an excuse. He was plagued by nightmares, he couldn't come back to his childhood home for holidays, he couldn't see his brother or mother without being transported back to a period of time when the simple act of living was pain and he would go to bed as a young child and pray that God would just take him to heaven, that he wouldn't wake up in the morning. He found it difficult to be a father because he was afraid, paralyzed, terrified of becoming his father. At some point, recently, he'd almost decided that it was good that Haley left him and took Jack because now he wouldn't be given the opportunity to take up the family business. 

The shed was dark, but light shone through the cracks in the wood. All of the tools were rusted and useless, decades will do that to anything. His mother, he knew, was delusional thinking he'd want anything – she had a way of disconnecting from everything that had happened to either of them. She even excused him, it was her way. And she could still look Sean in the eye because he never really got it. She almost never really looked Aaron in the eye, it hurt her too much. And it killed him that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, really look at him. He thumbed through some stacks of blueprints, pushed around some screwdrivers and rusted old wrenches, tried to fix the chain on a chainsaw. He put very little effort into any of it, because touching it took him back and that was exactly where he had no desire to be. He held a wrench in his hand that he knew had broken his arm once, and in a sick way, he almost thought that was something he should keep, to remind him why he never wanted to go home, to remind him not to become this monster. He slipped it into his pocket. There was a corner, piled with sawdust, that his father had made him sit in for hours while he worked, hours until he peed his pants. He was thirteen then. After he'd peed his pants, his father made him move the soiled sawdust by hand out to the chicken coop. He's slept out there that night, in the chicken coop, because he was afraid to return to the shed and knew his father was too drunk to notice he hadn't come back. If he had it his way, he'd just tear down the entire shed, or set it on fire. There was nothing worth saving here. He sighed and gave up, walking out and slamming the door shut behind him, feeling the wrench still protruding from his pocket. 

There was the tree-house. It loomed over him in the afternoon light, and he smiled again. It would give him what he needed...peace. 

He climbed the ladder, feeling splinters dive into his fingers as he made his way up, just like always. He always had splinters in his fingers. It was exactly as he'd left it, just dirtier, more broken. Sean never liked it up here after he left. There had been times in the summer they'd spent entire days up here sharpening stones into arrowheads or creating bow and arrows to play with neighbor kids. It was always their base when everyone played capture the flag, and Aaron could see it from what felt, at the time, like miles away when they played and his job was to run. They brought their sleeping bags up and slept under the stars when the fireflies were out, and only stopped when it got too cold to continue. Back when they could still find common ground in their brotherhood, when they still really loved each other and could show it. He sat down in the corner, his worn out corner that had the perfect view up through the tree branches, a view which for two springs in a row held a nest full of sparrows. He'd watched them every day, named them, even imagined full stories around them. They were, for a time, his only friends. He wasn't someone who had friends much until late in high school when he met Haley and Jessica, he just had buddies, people to play sports with and take refuge at their houses for a few hours after school. Not real friends though. No one really knew him. He didn't mind that, but those sparrows, they knew him. They sang to him. They would swoop so close to him sometimes he was sure they were trying to talk to him. They trusted him. 

And then they were gone. And it was okay. They'd loved him well as long as they could. He scooted back against the railing, leaning hard against the spot he'd always leaned against, and without warning, without seeing it coming, the railing gave way. The nails slipped from the rotted wood and he reached out, grabbing for something to hold on to desperately before falling backward out of the tree. He landed flat on his back, smacking his head on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. It wasn't high enough to really hurt him, just knock him around a bit, but he'd managed to slice his hand on a nail as he'd grabbed for something to hold. His hand was gushing blood, sliced from thumb to wrist and throbbing. He pulled it to his chest, twisted it in his shirt to stop the bleeding and pulled himself to his feet to get inside, find a first aid kit his mom probably didn't have. His head was pounding and he felt a little dizzy, stumbling through the yard quickly. His back hurt where he’d landed on a root. The cut wasn't deep, just a gash, but it hurt. His mom stared at him in horror as he walked in, his stomach bloody now from his hand soaking his shirt, and Sean leaped into action immediately. Aaron had forgotten how well Sean knew first aid, and he relinquished control immediately, letting Sean wash his hand and bandage him up. 

“You're good at this,” he muttered, and Sean laughed. It was soft, almost sarcastic though. Aaron still felt a little dizzy, so he rested his head on his good hand and watched Sean work. 

“Seriously?” he asked, stopping what he was doing, holding Aaron's injured hand between his own as he inspected it for debris. “I learned this for you...don't you remember?” Their mother heard that and made herself busy in the other room, afraid to listen to this conversation. It hurt too much when they talked like this. 

“I guess...” Aaron started, and then it hit him. Did he know? No, he hadn't really known, but there had been a shift at one point, when Sean was just barely old enough, that he'd sneak into Aaron's room after a bad night and he'd help him clean up. How had he forgotten?

“I kept a first aid kit under my bed. It's still there. I used to buy stuff for it with my birthday money.” 

Sean pressed the skin together at the edges, using old, brittle butterfly bandages from their mother’s expired kit where it was deep enough, and then wrapped his entire hand in gauze. “It's not perfect, I'm out of practice, but it'll last until you can go see a doctor. You could probably use a few stitches.” 

“Thank you, Sean,” Aaron said softly, making eye contact with his brother for the first time that day. Their mother dropped a tray of sandwiches on the table, avoiding eye contact or looking at the injury, like usual. Aaron didn't mind, he understood. She trusted Sean. Maybe she'd even asked Sean to take it on, he didn't know, he wouldn't ask. Their family had a dynamic and it was just best not to ask questions. 

“Eat some lunch boys. Peanut butter and apple butter, I made it from the apples in the yard.” They both scowled, they hated apple butter. It was gritty and cloyingly sweet, and she served it on soft white bread, but they'd eat it because she made it, same as always. They didn’t spray the tree, never had, and they knew there were probably worm guts in the apple butter. That didn’t help. Aaron kept his injured hand in his lap, his sliced palm throbbing and tender, and ate his lunch dutifully. 

“Did you clear out the shed?” his mother asked, dropping another batch of sandwiches on the tray, and he sighed. 

“I looked but it's all garbage, mom. Have it all hauled away.” She nodded, she understood. 

“What about you Sean?”

“Oh, there's some stuff in his office we could donate but...it's mostly garbage.” She nodded again. A look of relief came over her all at once, like she'd been holding onto this dread for decades and now had permission to just let it go. She wished they'd come out years ago, maybe right after the funeral, but they needed their own time, she knew. After lunch, Aaron made his way back out to the tree house and sat, this time with his back against the tree, a safer bet. He stayed all day, just sitting there. His hand throbbed beneath the gauze, soaking bright red blood spreading like poppies across the gauze. He pulled out his phone, got into a long conversation with Dave who had asked how he was doing out here, the only person from the team that he'd actually told what his week would look like because he knew Aaron's history, he knew Aaron's family. He and Jason, once upon a time, had been people Aaron confided in, back in the days he confided in anyone. He couldn't saddle anyone else with it. He was sure Derek knew where he was because of Sean, but they'd not talk about it, that wasn't their relationship. He'd hear some convoluted version of the story from Sean later on over pitchers of beer and that was okay. The afternoon gave way to twilight, and he watched the sky turn from blue to purple and gold and pink through the branches of his tree. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, staring, but he heard some scuffling noises below him and looked in time to see Sean throwing up a few sleeping bags and pillows, then hauling himself up ladder. He held a hammer in his hand, wood under his arm and nails in his teeth. Aaron grinned and held out his hand to grab what he could, then helped his brother into the tree. 

“You broke her,” Sean muttered, handing Aaron the hammer. “It's your turn to fix, I did it last time.” 

“Yeah and you did a shitty job obviously.” The two of them set to fixing the side, nailing boards in place to make the tree house whole again. Once it was finished and they were satisfied, Sean spread out the sleeping bags and pillows, then dashed back down the ladder to grab the cooler he'd drug behind him, full of beer and snacks. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” Sean muttered, tossing Aaron a beer and cracking one open himself. “I don't know why I get like that.”

“It's okay,” Aaron said softly, popping the top on his own can. “At least you're honest.”

“They do like you, y'know,” Sean offered, leaning back against the tree, shoulder to shoulder with his brother. “Don't know why, but they do.”

“I don't know why either,” Aaron shrugged, pouring the beer down his throat like he had in his college days. The cold can felt good against his sore hand. 

“So tomorrow, I say we call some people, get a dumpster out here and just chuck all of dad's shit. I don't want any of it and I know you don't either. And you're gonna throw away that fucking wrench I saw on the ground, dammit. I know you grabbed it. Don't you dare keep a single thing of his.” 

Aaron peered at his brother in the twilight, seeing him as an adult maybe for the first time, really. “I just thought...”

“Don't. Just stop. I know what he did with that wrench, I walked with you down the road to the Martinsen’s house, remember? And doctor M gave you that bandage because we told him you fell out of the tree-house but he knew better. I wished he’d a said something but he never did. No adults ever did. I’ll never understand it. Come on, Aaron, you know better than anyone what kind of damage a father can do, you see it every day. Don't let him do it from the grave too.”

“You're right. I'll toss it.” He wasn't sure he would, but he'd make the call when the dumpster was in front of him. Right now it rested in the grass beneath them. He pressed his fingertip to the small bump on his left arm, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what you were feeling for, but it was there, the spot where the bone was never set and healed just slightly wrong. 

“Hey Aaron,” Sean said, after a few minutes of silence and each of them opening a second can of beer. “Where's your wedding ring?”

Aaron let out a long, ragged sigh. He figured Sean had noticed, bandaging up his hand, that there had been something missing. “I guess I'm back on the market,” he said, trying to play it cool. Sean huffed. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close.

“You weren't on the market even before Haley. I’m not even sure you know where the market is. That isn't how you work. What happened?”

“I happened. She lasted longer than I thought she would, I guess.”

“You're so dramatic,” Sean said, rolling his eyes. “She lasted longer than I thought too, though. I gave it two weeks MAX, you lasted years. You okay?”

“Yeah...” Aaron sighed, dragging the word out, almost grunting it at the end. He emptied his second can of beer almost effortlessly. “Yeah. I'm okay. She's better off.” And that, he believed, was the real truth of it. Haley was better off without him. Without his job weighing on them. He was okay, he liked being alone, mostly. Sure, he got lonely, he missed his family terribly, but every so often Dave would pop by with a movie and a bottle of scotch because he too understood divorce, or he'd pop out to a movie on his own if there was something worth seeing. He didn't mind eating alone at restaurants. No, he was okay. And he could see Jack when he wanted to, when he was able to. Haley wasn't keeping his son from him, she wasn't at all worried he be like his father, she wanted him to see Jack as much as possible. “Hey, Sean? Don't tell mom, okay?”

“What? Yeah, of course, she'd have a fit. I don't want to deal with that all week. If she asks...you lost your ring on a case or something.”

“Don't lie to her,” he said softly, opening his third can. “Just help me keep my hand bandaged all week, cover it up. It's better this way. She barely looks at me anyway.” 

Sean nodded, he knew. They sat quietly after that, listening to the crickets in the fields, the squirrels in the trees, watched the stars ignite and the galaxies bloom in the sky above them. The moon was bright and orange, a harvest moon, huge and glaring down at them, daring them to try and leave after such a brilliant show. 

“Mom sent me out with sandwiches and some fruit, said we could stay out here all night like we used to when we were little. I think she just didn't want to cook dinner.”

“Classic,” Aaron muttered, but he smiled. He hadn't anticipated spending the night in his tree-house, but he was happy to do it. He hadn’t wanted to sleep in his old room. The sleeping bags would keep them warm most of the night, and they'd make their way inside when it got too cold and huddle around the wood stove they knew their mom would keep stoked in the front room. They watched the smoke rise from the chimney in anticipation. If the rest of the week could be as good as this night, it might not be so bad. At least they had their tree-house, the stars and a cooler of cheap beer.

Just like old times.


End file.
